


Walking in the Cold

by runsinthefamily



Series: Lonely Souls [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Casual Sex, Hustling, M/M, Underage - Freeform, Young Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:10:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runsinthefamily/pseuds/runsinthefamily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is seventeen the first time he gets blown by a dude.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Walking in the Cold

Fritz opened a door that Dean couldn't shut.

He was good at suppressing things, locking his shit down, getting the job done and not dwelling on things that couldn't be changed. After Fritz, though, it got harder to ignore the motel desk clerk with the big brown eyes, or the broad shouldered young lawyer, haunted by his dead sister. John took them down to Texas just after his birthday to gank a rugaru, and the kid they rescued was Dean's age, skinny and terrified and holding it together by a thread. He clung to Dean as they limped back out of the sewer, trembling like a live wire under Dean's arm. Dean wanked miserably in the shower after they dumped the kid back at his home, imagining those soft hands, that mouth, grateful eyes beneath his blond hair.

"Going out," he announced three days later, after they'd concluded a staid, predictable salt 'n burn in Sante Fe. Sam was sleeping, and John was, of course, already combing the papers for the next hunt. 

"Don't get into trouble," said John without looking up. 

"Yessir." 

He sat in the Impala for twenty minutes, watching people go in and out of the bar, trying to get up the resolve to either go in or start Baby up again and leave. One or the other. 

"Fuck," he said finally, thumped the steering wheel, and then got out, fast, before he could rethink it. His legs shook a little as he approached the door. It felt like freefall, like casting loose. It felt like a hunt, he realized suddenly, watching two women walk in ahead of him, arms entwined. The thought settled him a little. Assess the situation, gather info, then decide what to do.

Dean had a babyface, which was useful sometimes on the job, but always, always got him carded. His fake IDs were the shit, though, courtesy of Bobby's extensive network of talented craftsmen, and he slid into the bar without more than a cursory check by the doorman. The smell, the heat, the stuttering, broken darkness inside were all familiar. He'd been getting girls in the back seat of the Impala for two years, knew how to pick the ones that want the same as him, aren't going to ask too many questions or get clingy afterward. Generally they were older, which suited him fine. He knew how to play that angle, cheeky grin and puppy eyes. 

Dean looked across the bar, the grinding bodies on the dance floor, the makeouts in the corners. Men kissing men. Chicks, too, and that was more than a little interesting, but not really what he - he tried to swallow his heart back down. He didn't know how to play this.

"Hey!"

Dean jumped a little, looked sideways at the guy who'd just yelled over the music into his ear. Tall, lean, large gauge earrings and a complicated tattoo, all black thorns, up the side of his neck.

"You look a bit spooked," the guy went on, grinning. "First time? It's written all over you, man."

"I guess ..." Dean looked across the floor again. The music was relentless, a deep vibration in his breastbone. He hated the shit they played in bars. 

"Can I buy you a drink?" Thorns asked. He had nice eyes, though Dean couldn't tell what colour they were in the shifting, strobing lights.

"Sure," said Dean and produced an easy smile. How different could it be?

It was different.

Thorns was good at this, it was obvious. He bought Dean a drink and then got himself the same thing. That was one that Dean knew, making his mouth taste like something the girl already liked. He leaned into Dean's space and then, when Dean didn't lean away, started touching him, casual brushes against the back of his hand, the curve of his bicep. He spoke just a little too low, making Dean lean in to hear him.

Dean drank too much, too quickly. When Thorns put a hand on the side of his neck he shut his eyes and leaned into it. It was a big hand, calloused, and smelled of machine oil and metal. Thorns' thumb teased his earlobe and he shivered.

"Fuck, you're gorgeous," Thorns said and Dean opened his eyes again. "Wanna go somewhere?" Thorns tugged a little and Dean went. 

'Somewhere' turned out to be a little alcove just by the bathrooms. Thorns pushed Dean against the wall, not roughly, and kissed him. Whiskey and the faintest hint of smoke chased across Dean's tongue and he thought, inevitably, about Fritz, about Bobby's yard. He opened his mouth underneath Thorns', and Thorns groaned. He dropped his hand to Dean's crotch and Dean broke away, gasping. 

"Slower?" Thorns said into his ear. "Don't wanna rush you, god, you're just - I'd love to suck you off, but we don't have to do that, if you don't want. Just wanna kiss? Maybe?"

Dean shivered again, nodded.

"Kiss?" Thorns asked. "What?"

"Fuck," said Dean, hard and half-crazy from the nastiness of it, letting a man talk to him about blowjobs in the back hall of a gay bar. "I don't know."

"Okay," said Thorns. "Okay." And kissed him again. 

Dean put his hands on Thorns' chest, felt his pebbled nipples through his shirt. _I could do this_ , he thought. _I could just do this._ He shoved Thorns away a few inches. "Where?" he asked. "Where can we ..."

Thorns took him into the bathroom. A dude washing his hands smirked at them in the mirror but Dean could hardly care, hardly register it. His heart was going triple time in his chest, he felt cold and hot in turns. 

Thorns pulled him into the farthest stall and crowded him against the door. There was more light in here than outside, but not by much. Thorns' pupils were blown wide and he was smiling at Dean, all warm and eager. "Is this your first?" he asked, low and intimate. "Holy fuck, it is. Ok. Awesome." He knocked the lid down on the toilet and sat, tugging on Dean's belt to bring him in closer. 

Dean swallowed and put his hands on Thorns' shoulders. They were trembling slightly. 

"I'm going to take care of you, gorgeous, ok?" said Thorns. "Just relax." He undid Dean's belt, and then his jeans. Kissed his stomach just below his navel. 

Dean made a noise.

"Shh, shh," said Thorns, and pushed Dean's jeans and boxers down. "Fuck, yes." When his hand closed around Dean's cock, Dean let out a shuddering breath and thunked his head against the stall door. The warm wet of his mouth followed and Dean stuck his wrist into his mouth.

Every time a chick had gone down on him, he'd wondered about this, if a dude would be better at it. Even after that bartender in Akron had blown his mind and left him nearly-unconscious in the Impala's back seat, there had been a sliver of speculation. Thorns wasn't better than she'd been, per se, but he _was_ good. Really good. And he kept looking up, letting Dean see how slick and shiny his spit was along Dean's shaft, how swollen his lips were getting. He moaned a little, as if he were enjoying it, as if it were as hot for him as it was for Dean. His tongue did this _fluttering_ thing over the head of Dean's cock and Dean gasped, audibly, before he bit down harder on his wrist.

Thorns pulled off for a moment, tugged at Dean's arm. "No one cares," he said, his voice hoarse. "Let me hear you, c'mon." He took hold of Dean's abused wrist and threaded Dean's fingers though his own hair. "C'mon," he said again, grinned, and went back to work.

Dean forgot about being quiet. He clenched his fist in Thorns' hair, ran his fingertips across the faint scratch of stubble on his jaw, watched the flex and bunch of the muscles in his back. Tension gathered in his gut, in his balls. "I'm gonna," he said, pushing a little at Thorns' shoulders.

Thorns' response was to deep throat him. 

"Oh jesus!" Dean slammed his head against the door again, hard. "Uh, unh!" He came hard, his whole body locking up, straining. 

Thorns shifted, lifted the toilet lid, spit economically and without shame into the bowl. He looked up, wiping his mouth, grinning. "How was that?"

Dean leaned against the door, sweaty and shaking and dumb with the aftermath of pleasure.

"That good, huh?" Thorns leaned in and - oh, _god_ \- kissed him. He tasted his own come in the other man's mouth and couldn't decide if it was disgusting or amazing. "So do I get a go?" Thorny asked, petting Dean's stomach gently.

"Uh," said Dean.

Thorns laughed, not unkindly. "Don't worry about it." 

"Wait," said Dean, reached out. 

Thorns inhaled as Dean fumbled at his jeans, and dropped his head to Dean's shoulder as Dean reached in. His cock was hard and hot and slightly moist. _Pre-come_ , Dean thought, stirred by the idea that sucking Dean's cock had been such a turn on. He took hold, tugged.

"Fuck," said Thorns. "Here, wait." He shucked his jeans to his knees, pulled Dean's hand up, and licked a broad swath across it. 

"Yeah," said Dean. "Ok."

"God," said Thorns as Dean started up again. "Why are baby twinks so fucking hot? Faster."

Dean was hard again before Thorns was halfway there and Thorns showed him how to crowd their cocks together in his fist, full of encouragement and praise. When he came, cursing and rolling his hips into the movement of Dean's hand, Dean felt a moment of goofy pride. Thorns panted against Dean's shoulder, smelling of sweat and whiskey. 

"Jerk off," said Thorns. "Finish, let me see you finish."

It took maybe five strokes, Thorn's fingers playing along his wrist, before Dean came again.

Thorns mopped them both off with toilet paper, straightened Dean's collar with a smug little grin, and then checked to see if the coast was clear before ushering him to the sink. "You gonna be around?" he asked while Dean washed his hands.

"I -" Dean floundered.

"Hey, no problem," said Thorns. "Let's part friends, then, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Dean. Afterglow was wearing thin and he dropped his eyes to his hands, soapy and trembling in the sink.

"Hey," said Thorns. "It's okay."

"It kind of isn't," said Dean. 

"Yeah, well," said Thorns, looking aside. "It can be."

"My dad," said Dean, and then clamped his mouth shut. What the fuck was wrong with him?

"Hmm," said Thorns. "Mine, too." He shoved away from the counter, slipped a hand around the back of Dean's neck, and kissed the corner of his mouth. "We all do what we gotta do." He let go, grinned one final time, and then was gone.

Dean slowly lifted his eyes, met his own gaze.

Sammy was asleep and John was sitting at the table, cleaning one of the guns, when Dean slipped back into the motel room. John glanced up and then gave him half a smile and a headshake. Dean summoned up a smirk in response.

"That didn't take you long. Get to bed, we got an early start tomorrow." said John. "Bobby caught a case a couple states over. Could be a werewolf."

"Gonna shower first," said Dean.

"Don't wake your brother."

"No sir." He paused in the doorway. "Hey, dad."

"Yeah?" John didn't look up from the gun barrel he was scouring. His heavy shoulders, his brow, creased in concentration. His hands, broad and capable. 

"Nothing," said Dean. "Werewolf. That should be interesting."

"Shower and bed, Dean," said John, picking up the chamois.

"Yessir." Dean turned away and shut the bathroom door.


End file.
